


to be a bird

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Drabble, Emotionally Repressed Dean, M/M, One Word Prompt Meme, Pre-Season/Series 08, Purgatory, dean "emotionally constipated af" winchester, the search for cas 2k12, this is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wouldn’t change any of it. At least up until now.</p><p>Or: Dean practices letting go, and then doesn't. </p><p>(prompt fill: dean/cas + "goodbye")</p>
            </blockquote>





	to be a bird

**Author's Note:**

> long time no posting lmao i'm sorry school is kicking my ass  
> you know how hard it is to make a "destiel + goodbye" prompt NOT completely soul shattering???? this was exhausting as hell  
> dean is just a can of worms that i do not feel mentally prepared to open. someone hand sam back over to me, i'm more equipped to deal with that boy and all his problems  
> this is short. i'm terrible  
> unbeta'd as of this moment bc it's very late and i'm very tired but i'll go through it after i sleep  
> title is from "The Language of Birds" by Richard Siken

_The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does._

\- 

He thinks of his father in Vietnam, how similar it must have felt and how different.

He has never felt fear like this. He has never been afraid of the sounds his boots make on dry, cracked ground. He has never seen death reflected in the crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet.

But it doesn’t take long to realize that things work differently down here.

Each time he lies up against a tree trunk-- just for a minute, Benny, just to rest his eyes, he’s so goddamn tired—there’s a part of him that doesn’t get back up. He’s scattered around in fractured pieces; fingers and toes, teeth and hair, body and soul.

Sometimes he has all ten fingers and sometimes he doesn’t.

 

Dean doesn’t do goodbyes, not since that god-awful night in 1983.

Sam leaving him and moving to the other end of the continent? That was fine, he could leave voicemails if he wanted, even if they weren’t ever to be listened to.

John dying? It’s not like he had been more than a drill sergeant anyways, not like he’d been the map for Dean’s rage, guiding his gunshots and fists into something productive and righteous.

And as for _Sam_ dying, time and again, well--

Dean had always gotten him back, more or less in one piece. 

 

This time it’s different. This time there’s no option for self-sacrifice, no digging through lore or making deals or drinking himself nauseous in order to forget. It’s different because— and Dean realizes this as he stumbles through Hell’s next-door neighbor, the garbage dump of parallel worlds, the butt-crack’s _armpit_ of the paranormal—Castiel is different. He isn’t like Mom or Dad or Sam, there are no unspoken guarantees, there’s no blood tying them to one another. 

Blood _between_ them, maybe, because they’ve both thrown their fair share of punches. They’ve bled plenty, side by side or for each other, and if Dean is honest—

is Dean ever honest?—

He wouldn’t change any of it. At least up until now.

 

Now he practices because he knows he needs to. He mutters the word under his breath as he and his monster (he read that book to Sam when he was little, the one about the child whose room grew into a place not too unlike this one) trudge through mud and blood and guts. He knows he’s fucked, there’s no denying that, not when grief is the only thing he can hold onto. Everything else is too slippery, too blurred, too bloody.

_(Let the wild rumpus start.)_

He runs a fever one night and Benny is holding him to cool him down, which he might have found hilarious under any other circumstance. He whispers it to himself over and over into Benny’s shoulder, shivering and shaking, and that’s _sweat_ dripping off his chin and nothing else. It slips in between his hushed and hurried prayers, fills the lapses in his words, because if Cas can’t hear him then someone up there could at least relay the message.

“I’m right here, brother, I’m not going anywhere.”

No, no, no, it’s for someone who might already be gone.

He listens to Benny talk about the stars, tries to catch onto the cadence of his voice. He finds himself getting lost, Benny’s soft New Orleans rhythm shifting into something deeper, rougher, a familiar feeling of home. 

If Benny had recognized the hitch in Dean’s breath for what it is, he doesn’t say anything about it.

 

The first thought his brain can conjure up is _huh, Cas looks pretty good with a beard_ , and then his brain ceases forming thoughts altogether. His body just moves, but it’s not the same mindless way it’s been moving since he landed here. All the violence drains from his blood, and for one incredible and peaceful moment, he isn’t angry.

He caves, succumbs to the ripples of _let me hold you, let me hold you_ that seep from Cas’s soul. He stumbles forward. He’s caught. It’s fine because no one sees, no one except Benny and the thousands of eyes blinking down from the trees. Dean doesn’t need to save face in front of them.

_(Okay, hold me, hold me._

_I need you, I need you.)_

His surroundings fade out of focus until it’s nothing but the wet sand under him, the quiet hum of the river, and a cotton trench coat twisted tight in his fists.

One more: a heartbeat, steady and strong and the most beautiful fucking thing.

 _Goodbye_ is stuck at the roof of his mouth. He’d had it ready, waited with it poised at the back of his throat, and now it’s dissolving. The aching bitter taste on his tongue changes to milk and honey, and _this_ is his Promised Land; this, Dean decides, is what it had all been for.

The home within dirtied, wrinkled clothes, calloused palms, and chapped lips. The comfort in the canvas of unscarred skin, that bird’s nest of hair and eyes that hold God’s most treasured secrets and Dean’s too.

“Hello, Dean.”

( _You don't do goodbyes.)_

When he finally speaks, it makes his eyes sting.  

“Hey, Cas.” 

_(I don't need to.)_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really starting to like the one word prompts, so if y'all ever want to request something please feel free to!  
> Also. I read Twist & Shout last week. Let's all yell about that in the comments


End file.
